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The morning light in their kitchen was too soft for how tense it felt inside. Pedri stood by the sink, his hands still wet from washing the cups, watching the small streams of water run down the side of the porcelain. He could hear Ferran behind him, pacing the narrow space between the counter and the fridge like he was rehearsing a conversation neither of them knew how to finish.
It had been three days since the last test. Negative again. The small white stick had felt heavier than it should have, even before they’d turned it over. Pedri had thrown it in the bin, but the sound it made, plastic hitting metal, had followed him for hours.
Ferran had said nothing then. Just pressed his lips together, too hard, and nodded once before going for a run. He’d been running a lot lately.
Now, in the kitchen, the silence carried the weight of all the words they hadn’t managed to say. The walls of their house in Barcelona felt smaller than usual, like the air couldn’t stretch between them without breaking.
“Did you sleep?” Pedri asked finally, his voice thin.
Ferran turned, a shake of the head, eyes rimmed red. “A bit.” He hesitated before adding, “I went to the gym early.”
Pedri didn’t need to ask what that meant. Ferran had been tracking everything - sleep, protein intake, heart rate, supplements. There were spreadsheets on his phone now, reminders to take vitamins at exact hours, articles bookmarked about fertility and male hormones. He’d stopped eating chocolate, stopped drinking coffee, stopped sleeping past seven even on rest days. His discipline had turned brittle, like it could shatter if Pedri looked at it for too long.
“Ferran,” Pedri said quietly. “You don’t have to-”
“I do,” Ferran interrupted, and though his voice wasn’t loud, it cut through the room like a blade. “We’ve been trying for almost a year, Pedri. Something has to change.”
Pedri swallowed hard, the word we sinking deep into him. He wanted to say it wasn’t his fault, or Ferran’s, or anyone’s, but the words caught somewhere behind his teeth. He had already said them before, and they hadn’t done anything then.
He turned back to the sink, focusing on the clinking of the cups as he placed them to dry. “I just don’t want you to drive yourself crazy.”
Ferran didn’t answer. The sound of the fridge door opening and closing filled the silence. Then the sound of a bottle cap twisting off. The faint fizz of sparkling water.
When Ferran spoke again, his voice was smaller. “Maybe it’s me.”
Pedri froze. “Don’t start with that.”
“How can I not?” Ferran’s laugh was hollow, like it came from somewhere far away. “You’ve been to the doctor, your tests came back fine. So if it’s not you…”
Pedri turned. “It’s not anyone’s fault.”
But Ferran was already shaking his head, eyes cast down. “I’m supposed to be the healthy one. The big, muscly guy. I do everything right, and still-”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. The unfinished part hung in the air: and still I can’t give you what we want.
Pedri crossed the space between them, touching Ferran’s arm gently. The muscle there was tense, hard beneath his hand. “Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me.”
Ferran didn’t. His gaze stayed fixed on the counter.
“Please,” Pedri said, softer this time.
When Ferran finally lifted his eyes, they were glassy, wet at the edges. Pedri’s heart clenched. He reached up, brushing his thumb over the corner of Ferran’s jaw, then the curve of his cheekbone. “We’re in this together, remember?”
Ferran’s breath came out shaky. “I know.”
Pedri leaned forward, resting his forehead against Ferran’s. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fridge hummed. Outside, the street was quiet. Inside, two people stood very still, trying to remember that love could still feel like this - quiet, raw, trying.
💛
That night, Ferran didn’t come to bed.
Pedri found him in the living room at two in the morning, doing pushups on the floor in the half-light from the TV. Sweat darkened the back of his shirt, his breaths harsh and uneven.
“Ferran,” Pedri whispered. “Come to bed.”
“I’m almost done.”
Pedri crouched beside him, pressing a hand to his shoulder. “You’ve been at it for hours.”
Ferran stopped mid-rep, breathing hard. His eyes darted toward Pedri’s, guilt flickering there. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Pedri sat down on the floor, his legs crossed. “You think this is going to fix it?”
“I don’t know what else to do,” Ferran said, collapsing to sit back on his knees. “Every day it’s just another reminder that we can’t-” His voice cracked. “That I can’t.”
Pedri stared at him for a long moment. The man in front of him wasn’t the same Ferran who used to fill their house with laughter, who danced around the kitchen with his hair still wet from the shower, who pressed sleepy kisses to Pedri’s shoulder in the mornings. This Ferran was all edges and silence, cutting himself on the idea of control.
Pedri reached out, curling his fingers around Ferran’s wrist. “You can hold me instead,” he said softly.
Ferran blinked, confused, before Pedri tugged him forward, into his arms. For a second, Ferran resisted. Then he let go. The weight of him folded into Pedri’s chest, heavy and shaking.
They stayed like that on the living room floor until the first light began to creep through the curtains. Ferran’s breathing slowed, his heartbeat steadying against Pedri’s. Pedri closed his eyes, the ache in his chest deepening with every rise and fall of Ferran’s shoulders.
💛
The days blurred after that. Training, tests, early nights that felt endless. Pedri tried to stay grounded, but even at the club, he felt detached, like he was only half there. On the pitch, he moved through the drills on instinct. Ferran was the same - focused, almost too much, eyes sharp and cold. Their teammates noticed, but no one said anything. It wasn’t the kind of thing you asked about in a locker room.
That evening, when they got home, Pedri found Ferran in the bathroom mirror, lifting his shirt and examining his reflection. His ribs showed faintly beneath his skin. His abs were defined, perfect, like he was sculpted out of effort.
Pedri leaned against the doorframe. “You’re going to disappear if you keep this up.”
Ferran didn’t look away from the mirror. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Pedri said, his voice sharper now. “You barely eat. You work out until you can’t stand. You think if you punish yourself enough, something’s going to change?”
Ferran’s jaw tightened. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Then stop.”
Ferran finally turned, eyes burning. “What do you want me to do, Pedri? Just give up?”
Pedri flinched. “That’s not what I said.”
“Then what?” Ferran’s voice cracked. “I’m trying. I’m doing everything I can.”
Pedri stepped forward, the hurt bubbling up now. “You’re breaking yourself, and I’m watching it happen.”
Ferran’s breath hitched. For a second, he looked like he might argue again - but instead, he just sank down, sitting on the closed toilet lid, head in his hands.
“I just wanted it to work,” he whispered.
Pedri crouched down in front of him, his hand resting gently on Ferran’s knee. “Me too.”
They stayed like that for a long time. The air smelled faintly of soap and exhaustion. Pedri’s hand slipped up to Ferran’s cheek, lifting his face. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, traces of the man who hadn’t slept well in weeks.
“Come here,” Pedri said quietly.
Ferran leaned in, their foreheads touching again. Pedri closed his eyes, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of Ferran’s mouth. It wasn’t about passion. It was about trying to hold something together that was fraying at the edges.
💛
A week passed.
Their doctor had suggested taking a break from the tests for a while - to breathe, to reset. Ferran had nodded politely but hadn’t looked convinced. Pedri had agreed immediately. For the first time in months, there were no calendars pinned to the fridge, no alarms set for specific days. It was strange, the quiet that followed.
That Saturday, Pedri came home from training earlier than usual. Ferran wasn’t in the living room, or the kitchen, or out in the garden. He found him eventually in their bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by baby clothes.
Pedri froze at the doorway. He recognized them immediately - tiny shirts, socks, onesies - gifts from friends and overexcited abuelas, things they’d bought months ago when hope still felt easy. The sight of them now made something twist painfully in his chest.
Ferran didn’t look up. His hands were folded around a small white onesie with yellow stars. “I couldn’t just leave them in the closet,” he said quietly. “It felt wrong.”
Pedri stepped closer, kneeling beside him. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know,” Ferran said. “I just wanted to remember what it felt like to believe.”
Pedri’s throat tightened. He reached out and touched the fabric, fingers brushing against Ferran’s. “We still can,” he said, though it felt fragile in his mouth.
Ferran looked at him then, really looked, and Pedri saw it - the exhaustion, the love, the breaking point. “You really think so?”
Pedri hesitated, then nodded. “I don’t know when, or how. But we will. You and me… we’ve made it through worse.”
Ferran blinked hard, the tears finally spilling over. Pedri caught one with his thumb, leaned in, and kissed it away.
They sat there together, surrounded by the soft symbols of what they didn’t yet have but still wanted. Pedri’s hand found Ferran’s, and this time, Ferran held it tightly.
💛
That night, for the first time in a long time, they slept tangled together. Pedri’s head rested against Ferran’s chest, their hands intertwined. The heaviness didn’t vanish - it never really did - but it became quieter, softer. Grief made room for something else, something like hope that didn’t hurt as much to hold.
In the early morning, when the light began to seep in, Pedri stirred awake. He looked up at Ferran’s sleeping face, the faint furrow between his brows, the slow rise and fall of his chest. Pedri reached out, tracing a small circle on Ferran’s shoulder.
“Te amo,” he whispered.
Ferran stirred, not fully waking, just murmuring, “Te amo más,” before drifting off again.
Pedri smiled weakly, a small breath leaving him. The ache in his chest was still there, but it wasn’t suffocating anymore. It was just part of him now - something he could live with, something that reminded him of how much they wanted, how much they loved.
Ferran had started smiling again. Not often, and not fully, but enough that Pedri noticed.
At training, he’d begun to joke with the others again, the small moments of levity that used to come so naturally to him. Even his voice had changed - lighter, though it still cracked sometimes when he was tired. Pedri watched from a few paces away, pretending not to. It wasn’t the same Ferran as before, but it was a version that was learning how to breathe again.
At home, though, the quiet remained.
Ferran still kept his routines. He still counted calories and tracked sleep. But he wasn’t punishing himself anymore; he was just trying to stay steady. There were nights when he’d curl up on the couch beside Pedri to watch a movie, half-asleep by the time the credits rolled. Sometimes, when Pedri reached out to brush his hand through Ferran’s hair, Ferran didn’t flinch away. That alone felt like progress.
One Wednesday night, after dinner, Ferran was lacing his shoes again.
“You’re going out?” Pedri asked, glancing up from the table.
“Yeah. Some of the guys are staying late. We’re working on finishing drills.”
Pedri nodded. “Okay.”
“I’ll be back soon,” Ferran said, but the tone was absent. His mind was already on the pitch. He grabbed his keys from the counter and leaned in to kiss Pedri’s temple - quick, automatic.
Pedri managed a small smile. “Don’t overdo it.”
Ferran’s mouth curved faintly, the closest thing to warmth he could offer. “You sound like the physio.”
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut, leaving the house too still again.
Pedri stared at the untouched tea beside him, the faint trail of steam curling upward. He’d gotten used to the sound of Ferran’s absence - the quiet thuds of the treadmill in the garage, the late-night showers, the way the walls seemed to hum differently when Ferran wasn’t there. But tonight, it felt heavier.
He cleaned the table slowly, one plate at a time, moving without really thinking. He’d learned to fill time with small motions, with things that felt productive. Dishes. Laundry. Sorting the mail. Anything that didn’t involve sitting still with his thoughts.
When he was done, he wandered toward the living room. Ferran’s laptop sat open on the couch, the faint glow of the screen still on. He must have forgotten to close it before leaving.
Pedri hesitated, thumb brushing against the edge of the device. He didn’t mean to look. He really didn’t. But then he saw the browser tabs, still open - half minimized, as if Ferran hadn’t meant to leave them visible.
The words hit him like a slow, creeping weight.
surrogacy process spain
best adoption agencies in europe
adoption requirements same-sex couples barcelona
Pedri’s breath caught.
He clicked one of the tabs without realizing it, the cursor moving on its own. A webpage opened - sterile blue font, cheerful stock photos of couples holding babies that weren’t theirs yet. He scrolled. Gestational carrier programs, legal timelines, cost estimates. Words that should have felt hopeful, but didn’t.
His eyes blurred before he even reached the end of the page.
He sat back, heart thudding unevenly. His mind was a mess of tangled threads. Of course he wasn’t angry. Of course he understood. Surrogacy, adoption - beautiful, loving ways to build a family. He’d told Ferran that before. He’d meant it.
But underneath the understanding was something deeper, rawer. Something that felt almost like grief.
Pedri pressed his palms against his knees, breathing slowly. He had wanted this for so long. Not just the idea of a child. The experience - the full, imperfect, human mess of it. The nausea, the cravings, the bump growing beneath his hands. He’d dreamed about it since he was fifteen, since he’d learned he could carry. He remembered lying awake back then, tracing small circles on his stomach, wondering what it would be like to feel life move inside him.
Now, staring at Ferran’s search history, it felt like that dream was dissolving in front of him.
He closed the laptop quietly, the sound of it snapping shut too loud in the room. Then he stood, wandering aimlessly toward their bedroom. The sheets were still slightly rumpled from the morning. Ferran’s side smelled like his aftershave.
Pedri sat down on the edge of the bed, running a hand over his face. His throat ached. His chest, too.
He wasn’t angry at Ferran. Not really. But he felt left behind. Like Ferran had already moved on to a new version of hope, while Pedri was still clutching the old one with both hands, refusing to let go.
He laid back, staring at the ceiling. The house creaked in the night wind. His phone buzzed with a message from Gavi about training, but he didn’t look. He just stared upward, his chest tight, waiting for something to stop hurting.
The tears came slowly. Not in a flood, just a few at first, slipping down his temples and soaking into the pillow. He turned onto his side, curling his knees up to his chest.
He imagined what Ferran must have felt, sitting at that laptop. The quiet desperation of wanting to fix something that wouldn’t be fixed. The guilt that must have twisted through him as he searched, thinking it was the only way forward.
Pedri understood it. But understanding didn’t make it easier to bear.
He closed his eyes and pictured what he’d wanted - his hand resting on a growing belly, Ferran’s laughter as he talked to the baby, the warmth of a life they’d made between them. It was all still possible, in other ways, but it didn’t look the same. And that difference hurt.
He drifted like that for a long time, not quite sleeping, not quite awake.
When Ferran finally came home, the sound of the door startled him. He heard the shuffle of shoes being kicked off, the faint thud of a gym bag dropped by the wall.
“Pedri?” Ferran called softly.
Pedri didn’t answer.
Footsteps padded down the hallway, slow and hesitant. The bedroom door creaked open, and light spilled in from the corridor. Ferran stood there, his hair damp with sweat, the smell of grass and cold air clinging to him.
“You’re still up?”
Pedri turned his face toward the pillow, pretending he was half-asleep. “Yeah,” he murmured.
Ferran moved closer, his weight sinking the mattress as he sat beside him. “Sorry I’m late. We stayed longer than I thought.”
Pedri nodded without opening his eyes. “It’s fine.”
Ferran reached out, brushing a thumb along Pedri’s hairline. “You okay?”
Pedri’s throat tightened. The simple question cracked something open again.
“Yeah,” he whispered, too quickly.
Ferran hesitated. His hand lingered a moment longer before he stood and began changing quietly, pulling his shirt off, moving around the room with careful steps. The light from the hallway caught on the curve of his shoulders, the tired lines of his face.
Pedri kept his eyes closed, pretending not to watch, pretending he hadn’t seen what he’d seen.
Ferran slipped into bed a few minutes later, his arm brushing against Pedri’s beneath the blanket. Usually, that touch was enough to ground them both. But tonight, Pedri felt hollow, like there was space between their skin.
Ferran shifted closer, pressing a kiss to the back of Pedri’s neck. “Te quiero,” he whispered.
Pedri swallowed, his eyes burning again. “Te quiero,” he answered, so softly it almost disappeared into the dark.
Ferran’s breathing slowed. Within minutes, he was asleep.
Pedri lay awake, listening to the rhythm of it, steady and familiar. He loved that sound. It had carried him through so many nights - lonely ones, scared ones, the ones when the world felt too heavy. But tonight, it only reminded him of the distance that had grown quietly between them.
He turned slightly, just enough to see Ferran’s face in the faint light. There was a softness there, finally, in sleep. The tension gone, the fight gone. Pedri reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Ferran’s forehead.
“I wanted it to be us,” he whispered.
Ferran didn’t stir.
Pedri let his hand rest there for a moment, then pulled it back and tucked it beneath his chin. He blinked against the tears threatening to fall again.
He thought about what it would mean to let go of that dream - to embrace something new, something different. Maybe they’d find their way there eventually. Maybe Ferran was already halfway down that path. But Pedri wasn’t ready yet. He wasn’t ready to stop believing in the life he’d imagined since he was a boy.
The ceiling blurred again as the tears slipped down silently.
He turned back toward Ferran, close enough now that he could feel the warmth of his breath against his collarbone. The instinct to reach out and hold him was still there, always there, but it felt heavier tonight.
“Maybe one day,” he whispered into the quiet.
Ferran exhaled in his sleep, shifting slightly closer, his hand brushing against Pedri’s hip. Pedri froze, afraid that if he moved, the moment would break. He stayed still, breathing through the ache.
Outside, the city was silent. The moonlight spilled faintly through the curtains, soft and pale across the sheets.
Pedri’s eyes stayed open long after midnight, the quiet house echoing with everything he hadn’t said.
The days that followed were quiet in a way Pedri couldn’t decide was good or bad.
Ferran had softened around the edges again. Not fully, not permanently, but enough for Pedri to breathe a little easier. He laughed more often. He’d started eating without measuring everything, had even joined the others for dinner after training a few times. He came home smelling like rain and grass and exhaustion, and Pedri found comfort in that familiar scent, in the way Ferran leaned into him on the couch without needing to fill the silence with words.
For the first time in months, it felt like they were just them again. Two men who loved each other. Not a project. Not a plan. Just… Ferran and Pedri.
And Pedri needed that. Needed it like air.
It was a Thursday evening when Ferran brought it up.
Pedri was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup. Music played quietly through the speaker on the counter - something soft and aimless, the kind of playlist that didn’t demand attention. Ferran had come home early for once, his hair still damp from the shower, his hoodie loose and creased.
He leaned against the doorframe, watching Pedri move. “That smells good.”
Pedri smiled without looking up. “It’s just soup. You always say that like I’m making something special.”
“It’s special because you’re making it,” Ferran said, and there was that tiny smirk again - the one Pedri had missed more than he’d ever admit.
Pedri turned, smiling at him. “Cheesy.”
“True.”
They both laughed quietly. It felt easy. Comfortable. Ferran came closer, wrapping his arms around Pedri’s waist from behind, his chin resting on his shoulder. Pedri leaned back into the warmth, closing his eyes for a second.
It could’ve stayed that way. It should’ve.
But then Ferran spoke, his voice careful but steady. “I was thinking… maybe we could start trying again soon.”
Pedri’s body went rigid before his mind caught up.
The spoon stilled in the pot. The soft bubbling sound of the soup filled the space between them.
“Soon?” he repeated, not turning around.
“Yeah.” Ferran’s arms loosened slightly. “Not right away, but… maybe next week. Or the one after.”
Pedri pulled away, turning to face him. The look on his face made Ferran’s smile falter immediately.
“It’s barely been a month,” Pedri said quietly.
“I know,” Ferran said quickly. “I just thought… things feel better now. We’re better now.”
Pedri set the spoon down, wiping his hands on a towel. “You really think that means we’re ready?”
Ferran hesitated, eyes darting to the counter. “I don’t know. I just-” He stopped, searching for words. “It feels like a good time. You’ve been doing well. I’ve been… better. And maybe-”
Pedri’s voice cut through, calm but sharp. “Have you been tracking again?”
Ferran froze. “What?”
“You heard me.” Pedri crossed his arms. “You’ve been tracking again, haven’t you?”
“I just-” Ferran exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to. It’s habit now. I saw the reminders on my phone and-”
“So that’s why now,” Pedri said. “Because you saw it’s supposed to be my most fertile week.”
Ferran looked like he’d been caught in a lie, though he hadn’t even denied it yet. His silence was enough.
Pedri laughed under his breath, but there was no humor in it. “You said we were taking a break.”
“I meant it,” Ferran said quickly. “I did. But I’ve been thinking, maybe this time would be different. We’re in a better place, we’re-”
“You’re in a better place,” Pedri interrupted. “Barely. You’re only just starting to come back to me, Ferran. And now you want to go right back into what broke us?”
Ferran flinched. “It didn’t break us.”
“Didn’t it?” Pedri’s voice cracked now, the weight of the last months bleeding through. “You were killing yourself trying to fix something that wasn’t broken. You stopped sleeping, you stopped eating, you-”
He stopped himself, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. His voice came out smaller after that. “You stopped being you.”
Ferran stepped closer, but Pedri took a step back.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Ferran said quietly. “I just thought maybe we could try with less pressure this time. No tracking, no doctors, just… us.”
Pedri’s chest ached. “But you already tracked.”
Ferran looked down. “I know. I’m sorry.”
The air in the room felt thick, heavy with everything they weren’t saying. Pedri turned back to the counter, gripping the edge until his knuckles went white.
“I can’t,” he said finally. “Not now.”
Ferran was silent for a moment. “Because of me?”
Pedri let out a shaky breath. “Because of both of us.”
The soup bubbled softly behind them, forgotten. Pedri stared at the counter, at the small pool of water left from washing the vegetables. His reflection rippled faintly in it, blurred and unsteady.
Ferran spoke again, voice low. “You’ve been distant lately.”
Pedri blinked. “I’ve been trying to breathe.”
“I didn’t mean-”
“I know what you meant.” Pedri turned to face him again, and for the first time in a long time, there were tears sitting at the corners of his eyes, visible even in the low light. “You’re finally starting to look like yourself again. I can see it. You laugh. You sleep. You eat breakfast without calculating how many grams of whatever are in it. You’re you, Ferran. And if we start again now, I’m scared I’ll lose that all over again.”
Ferran swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. “You won’t.”
Pedri shook his head. “You can’t promise that.”
The silence that followed was sharp. Outside, a car passed down the street, the sound fading into nothing.
Ferran’s shoulders slumped. “I thought you still wanted this.”
Pedri’s voice cracked. “Of course I do. Every day. But not like this.”
Ferran’s hands clenched at his sides. “Then how?”
Pedri opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. Because the truth was, he didn’t know. He wanted to try again, but not while the thought of it made his chest ache. Not while Ferran’s eyes still carried guilt instead of hope. Not while his own heart still felt bruised.
He turned away, pressing his palms flat to the countertop again. “I can’t do it yet.”
Ferran was quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “You saw, didn’t you.”
Pedri stilled.
“The laptop,” Ferran said. “You saw what I was looking at.”
Pedri’s fingers curled against the counter. He didn’t answer.
Ferran exhaled shakily. “I wasn’t trying to replace what we wanted. I just thought, if it never works, I still want us to have a family. I still want to see you holding a baby. To be parents. I was trying to find another way.”
Pedri turned his head slightly, just enough that his voice wouldn’t break when he spoke. “You were trying to fix it again.”
Ferran closed his eyes. “Maybe.”
Neither of them moved. The song on the speaker ended. The silence that replaced it felt endless.
Finally, Pedri spoke, his voice almost a whisper. “When I was fifteen, and I found out I could carry, I used to dream about it. What it would feel like. The kicks, the bump, even the nausea. I wanted all of it. I wanted to feel our baby inside me. That was supposed to be ours.”
Ferran’s chest caved a little, his voice barely audible. “I know.”
Pedri looked at him, and there was no anger left… just exhaustion, and a kind of sadness that came from wanting too much. “I would love a baby any way we have one. I would. But I’m not ready to stop hoping for that version yet.”
Ferran nodded slowly, eyes glassy. “Okay.”
It wasn’t agreement. It was surrender.
Pedri turned back to the pot, stirring it once, just to have something to do with his hands. The sound filled the silence between them.
Behind him, Ferran stood still for a long time. Then he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Pedri didn’t turn around. “I know.”
When the soup was ready, neither of them ate much. They sat across from each other at the table, the clinking of spoons the only sound in the room. Ferran’s gaze flickered toward Pedri a few times, but Pedri didn’t meet it.
Ferran lay awake long after Pedri had drifted off, the soft rise and fall of his husband’s chest a bittersweet anchor. He could feel Pedri’s warmth beneath the covers, and he hated it all the same. Because every heartbeat, every breath, every small sigh was a reminder of what he feared he could never fully give him.
A family. A child. The dream Pedri had carried since he was fifteen.
Ferran closed his eyes, pressing the pillow over his face, willing the thoughts to stop. But they didn’t. They never did.
He kept replaying the conversations from the past weeks. Pedri’s quiet tears. The small admissions of fear. The way his voice had cracked when he’d said, I just need a little more time.
Ferran wanted to believe that was enough. That they could tread slowly, carefully, and it would work out. But another part of him - the relentless, obsessive part - kept tallying up every flaw, every shortcoming, every day he hadn’t been enough.
He was supposed to be the strong one. The one with the answers. The one who could make things happen. The athlete, the man who could run further, push harder, endure more. Yet here he was, standing on the edge of a cliff he didn’t know how to cross.
Pedri deserved more than him.
Every night, Ferran went over the reasons, over and over:
He was too obsessive. Too controlling. Too aware of every metric, every number, every possibility of failure. He’d nearly destroyed himself chasing a goal that wasn’t even about him alone. He had let the idea of a child take precedence over everything else, including the man he loved more than air.
Pedri had always been patient. Gentle. Compassionate. Even when Ferran had lashed out or withdrawn. Even when he had failed him in ways he couldn’t name. And yet Ferran still felt undeserving. Not just undeserving, but dangerous to the very happiness Pedri had fought so hard to maintain.
He imagined Pedri with someone else - someone calmer, someone who could give him the life he wanted without spiraling, someone who could offer a family without the shadow of obsession. And every image, every thought, twisted Ferran’s gut with guilt and grief.
He turned over in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of his own inadequacy pressing down.
“I’m not enough,” he whispered to the darkness. “Not for him. Not for us.”
The next morning, he went through his routine mechanically - breakfast, stretching, a light jog along the beach near their house. Pedri was asleep, and Ferran didn’t touch him, didn’t lean in to wake him. He couldn’t. Not yet. Not with the thoughts racing through his head.
He ran until his legs burned and his chest felt like it might collapse. Not for fitness. Not for fertility. Not for anything tangible at all. He ran to outrun the voice inside him telling him that he wasn’t worthy of Pedri, that he could never give Pedri what he deserved.
By the time he returned home, he was trembling - not from exertion, but from the quiet, gnawing panic of love and guilt entwined. Pedri was sitting at the table, drinking coffee and scrolling through his phone, the morning sunlight casting soft shadows across his face. He looked so peaceful, so whole, and Ferran hated that even more.
He swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Morning,” he said, voice tight.
Pedri looked up, smiling. “Morning. You’re back early.”
“Yeah,” Ferran said. He perched on the edge of the chair, fingers drumming on the tabletop. “I… we need to talk.”
Pedri frowned, setting his cup down. “About?”
Ferran hesitated, words tangling in his throat. He couldn’t say the truth yet, not fully. Not the part about inadequacy, about guilt, about fearing he might ruin Pedri’s life and dreams if they kept going. The guilt itself was too heavy, too sharp to voice without breaking apart.
“I… I think maybe we should spend some time apart,” he said finally, voice low and careful.
Pedri froze. The spoon in his hand clattered against the table. “What?”
“I just-” Ferran’s hands twisted in his lap. “I think it might be better for both of us.”
Pedri’s eyes narrowed, disbelief flashing across his face. “Better for both of us? Are you serious?”
“I… I don’t know yet,” Ferran admitted. “I just… I need to figure some things out. We’ve been under so much pressure-”
Pedri slammed his hand onto the table, standing so quickly that the chair scraped against the floor. “No! No, no, no, no. We are not spending time apart. We are not breaking up.”
Ferran flinched at the volume, at the raw, desperate edge in Pedri’s voice. “Pedro-”
“You don’t get to decide that!” Pedri’s voice broke. “You don’t get to decide we’re taking time apart, not like this! You’re still barely… barely yourself, and now you want to run? Away from me?”
Ferran’s chest tightened. The words he’d rehearsed in his head - about deserving, about Pedri being better off - felt like shards in his lungs. “I’m not running,” he said softly, almost too softly. “I just…”
“You’re hurting yourself again! And me with you! Do you even realize how terrified I am when you pull away like this?!” Pedri’s voice cracked completely now, and Ferran could see tears streaking down his face. “Do you think I could ever… ever let you just go, Ferran? No. Never.”
Ferran shook his head, throat tight. He had thought the words might bring relief, might protect Pedri. Instead, he had ignited a storm. He took a step back, instinctively, but Pedri grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him forward so hard that he stumbled a little.
“We are not breaking up!” Pedri shouted, sobs now wracking his body. “You are not walking away from me! You hear me? Not ever. I will not let you. You belong here, Ferran. With me. Always.”
Ferran felt the world tilt. Pedri’s hands were gripping his shirt, shaking him hard.
The sobbing, the raw emotion, the sheer insistence - it was too much and not enough all at once. He had never wanted to disappear more than he did in that moment, but Pedri’s eyes, so full of love and desperation, anchored him in a way nothing else could.
“I-” Ferran began, voice breaking.
“You hear me?!” Pedri shouted again, tears spilling freely now, falling onto Ferran’s chest. “You don’t get to leave me because you’re scared. You don’t! You are my one true love, Ferran! You always have been. Until death do us part, remember?”
Ferran’s knees threatened to buckle under the intensity, and instinctively, he wrapped his arms around Pedri. He had never held him so tightly, never wanted to. Pedri’s head pressed into his shoulder, his hands clutching at Ferran’s back, fingers digging in like anchors.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” Ferran whispered. His voice was raw, broken. “I just… I don’t know if I’m enough. I don’t know if I can-”
Pedri tightened his grip, shaking his head against him. “You are enough. You’re always enough. Stop thinking like that. Stop pushing me away. Stop thinking you have to fix everything. I love you, Ferran. That’s it. Just… just love me. Don’t run from me.”
Ferran felt something crack inside him, something heavy and terrible and freeing all at once. His chest heaved against Pedri’s, the weight of guilt, fear, and love colliding in one sharp, overwhelming moment. He pressed a kiss to the crown of Pedri’s head, holding on, letting himself feel the truth he’d been running from: that no matter his fears, no matter his doubts, Pedri would not let him go.
And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to break.
Pedri’s sobs racked his body, and Ferran’s own tears fell freely, dripping onto Pedri’s hair, onto his neck, onto the sheets beneath them. They clung together, trembling, crying, and in that violent, desperate closeness, the world outside disappeared.
Ferran whispered apologies again and again, and Pedri held him tighter, murmuring words of reassurance, his voice breaking with every one. There was no clarity, no solution, no magic fix. Just two men, entwined in the darkness and the light, holding each other because it was the only way they knew how.
Minutes passed. Hours, maybe. Time had no meaning. Only the rhythm of breaths, the shared warmth, the soft, wet sobs that slowly started to fade into ragged inhales and exhalations.
Finally, Pedri’s voice came, quiet, trembling, but steady enough to anchor Ferran. “It’s okay. We’re okay. We’re right here. Together.”
Ferran pressed a hand to Pedri’s cheek, brushing away a tear. “I’m… I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I thought- maybe… I thought you’d be better off without me.”
Pedri shook his head, letting out a small, exhausted noise. “I’m never better off without you. You are my person. My home. Don’t ever think otherwise.”
Ferran buried his face against Pedri’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of him, memorizing the feel of his chest rising and falling. For now, for this moment, the argument, the fears, the obsession, everything else - it all melted away into the steady, fragile pulse of love and forgiveness between them.
Pedri clung to him. Ferran clung back. And though the weight of the world had not lifted, though the future was still uncertain and the tests still loomed somewhere in the corner of their minds, they were here. Together.
That was enough.
The city outside was unusually quiet that week. Training had given them two days off, and neither Ferran nor Pedri had plans beyond the walls of their home. For the first time in weeks, they weren’t chasing schedules, measuring meals, or thinking about tests.
The next few days were beautifully odd. As if trying to completely forget Ferran’s suggestion of spending time apart, the two acted like they were back in the newlywed phase again - feeling the same joy and sheer need for each other as they did when they first stepped off the plane from Tenerife after the wedding.
Pedri woke first, as usual, curled under the soft warmth of the duvet. He felt Ferran’s arm draped over him, heavy but protective, the morning sunlight spilling across Ferran’s bare back. He let himself breathe in the moment, tracing the line of Ferran’s shoulder with a fingertip, feeling the warmth under his skin.
Ferran stirred, nuzzling into Pedri’s neck, lips brushing softly across the hollow of his throat. “Buenos días,” he murmured, voice husky with sleep.
Pedri tilted his head back, letting him press a small kiss there. “Good morning,” he replied, his hands sliding over Ferran’s chest and arms, memorizing the familiar contours he’d missed in the weeks of distance.
They didn’t rush. There was no reason to. Hours stretched quietly between them as they tangled beneath the sheets, talking softly about nothing, running fingers through each other’s hair, pressing small kisses to shoulders, jawlines, necks. The kind of touches that weren’t urgent, just deliberate and lingering, a silent way of saying: I’m here, and I’m in love with you.
Ferran rolled onto his side, pulling Pedri against him, chest to chest. Pedri’s hand rested on Ferran’s bare hip, thumb brushing circles lazily along the skin. “You feel… warm,” Pedri murmured.
“I’ve missed you,” Ferran whispered back, his lips brushing Pedri’s temple. “Missed this.”
“Me too,” Pedri said. His voice caught slightly, not from sadness but from relief. Relief that Ferran was really back, really present. “It’s nice to just… be us again.”
Ferran hummed in agreement, tugging the duvet higher around them and pressing small, featherlight kisses along Pedri’s shoulder. They moved together like slow currents, shifting, stretching, holding, skin on skin in ways that spoke more than words could.
By midday, they had moved to the living room, blankets piled on the sofa. Pedri leaned against Ferran’s chest while Ferran traced lines along his back, fingers pressing into muscles, massaging shoulders that had been tense from the last months of stress.
“You’ve been holding yourself together a lot lately,” Ferran said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind Pedri’s ear. “Let me take care of you for a while.”
Pedri smiled against his chest, nuzzling closer. “I like it when you do that.”
“You like it too much,” Ferran teased, fingers moving in slow, lazy circles over Pedri’s shoulder blades.
“I like feeling you,” Pedri admitted. “Touching you, feeling you. Like we’re the only people in the world.”
Ferran’s lips found the top of Pedri’s head. “We are. For now, anyway.”
Hours passed with quiet intimacy. They cooked lunch together, Ferran letting Pedri stir sauces while he cleaned vegetables, occasionally stealing a kiss that lingered longer than necessary. Pedri hummed quietly as he leaned against him, letting Ferran rest a hand on the small of his back, thumb brushing along his spine.
Afterward, they sprawled on the sofa again. Ferran draped an arm over Pedri, pulling him close, and Pedri rested a hand on Ferran’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. They didn’t speak much; words were unnecessary. Every touch, every brush of skin on skin, every sigh and whisper was a conversation in itself.
Later, in the golden haze of late afternoon, they lay on the floor near the window. Ferran pressed kisses along Pedri’s arm, neck, and collarbone, trailing slowly, deliberately, as if memorizing every inch of him. Pedri giggled softly when Ferran’s lips brushed along the sensitive skin at his ribs, teasing him gently.
“You’re ridiculous,” Pedri murmured, breath catching slightly.
“You love it,” Ferran countered, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips before he pressed a soft kiss to Pedri’s chest.
They moved together, entwined limbs and soft laughter mixing with the warmth of the sun on their skin. Pedri ran fingers along Ferran’s back, down the lines of his shoulders, memorizing the curve of muscles that had once been taut with tension and now relaxed under his touch.
“You smell like the ocean,” Pedri whispered later, as Ferran lay resting his head on Pedri’s chest.
Ferran chuckled softly. “I just came back from the balcony. You know I can’t resist the smell of the sea.”
Pedri pressed a kiss to the crown of his hair. “I like it. Smells like home.”
They spent the evening like that, moving lazily from the floor to the bed to the sofa again. Ferran pressed kisses along Pedri’s neck, across his shoulder blades, the small of his back, while Pedri traced patterns along Ferran’s chest, running hands along the contours of his abs, tracing veins along his forearms. It was gentle, intimate, without urgency, and every brush of skin against skin was a reminder that they were here, together, and nothing else mattered in that moment.
By nightfall, they were back in bed, sheets tangled around them. Ferran rested his forehead against Pedri’s, breathing shallow and calm. Pedri’s fingers stroked the curve of Ferran’s cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of his lips.
“You feel like mine,” Pedri whispered, voice husky.
“I am,” Ferran said, pressing a kiss to Pedri’s temple. “Always.”
Pedri pressed a small kiss to Ferran’s jawline. “You’re warm,” he murmured.
Ferran smiled softly. “You’re warmer.”
They fell asleep like that, limbs tangled, skin on skin, hearts pressed together in the quiet intimacy of two men who had weathered storms and now just wanted to linger in the calm.
The next morning, Ferran woke first, stretching lazily, tracing small circles on Pedri’s back with a fingertip. Pedri stirred, nuzzling into his shoulder.
“You’re early,” Pedri murmured sleepily.
“I wanted to make sure I got a few moments like this,” Ferran said, voice soft. He pressed a kiss to the back of Pedri’s neck, then to his shoulder. “Moments where it’s just us. No tests, no pressure, no fear. Just us.”
Pedri sighed happily, curling closer. “I like this,” he said. “I like feeling you next to me. Feeling… everything.”
Ferran chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of Pedri’s head. “Good. Because I plan to spend the day making sure you feel that way.”
They moved through the day slowly, touching constantly. Cooking together, laughing together, leaning against each other on the balcony with the warm afternoon sun. Ferran brushed his lips along Pedri’s neck when he handed him the tea. Pedri leaned into him, letting out a soft sigh.
Everywhere they went, every action was accompanied by some form of touching - hands resting on hips, fingers intertwined, quiet kisses along shoulders and forearms. There were no words needed to remind them of the love that had carried them through months of fear and worry.
That evening, Ferran pressed himself against Pedri on the sofa, forehead to forehead. Pedri rested his hand on Ferran’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
“I love you,” Ferran whispered.
“I love you more,” Pedri replied, fingers brushing along his jaw.
They stayed like that for hours, talking softly, laughing lightly, pressing small kisses along shoulders and forearms, letting their bodies remember the rhythm of love, of comfort, of home.
The world outside could wait. Here, in the quiet of their house, the warmth of the sun fading into the soft glow of the evening, Ferran and Pedri were just two men in love, wrapped up in each other, newlyweds again in every touch, every kiss, every whispered I love you.
It’s been a year since those two days.
The sunlight spilled through the large windows of their new house, catching the pale cream walls and the warm wood floors in a soft glow. Ferran stood in the kitchen, slicing oranges for breakfast, while Pedri wandered between the counters, a mug in his hands, watching him with a smile.
It was their fifth wedding anniversary. Five years of laughter, fights, quiet nights, and noisy ones. Five years of being each other’s home and safety, the world shrinking to just the two of them when necessary.
The new house had taken months to settle into, but now it felt like theirs in every way - spacious enough to breathe, comfortable enough to stay in pajamas all day, with a patio that overlooked a garden Ferran had spent hours planning and Pedri insisted on keeping.
“Did you ever think we’d be here?” Pedri asked, sipping his coffee, watching Ferran work.
Ferran glanced up, smiling, and the sight of him leaning casually against the counter, hair damp from the shower, sleeves rolled up, made Pedri’s chest tighten. “I didn’t. But I hoped we would. I hoped we’d… have this. Together.”
Pedri came closer, pressing a kiss to Ferran’s temple before resting his chin on his shoulder. “We did it,” he murmured. “We really did it.”
Ferran pressed a soft kiss to Pedri’s head, tugging him gently closer. “Yeah. We did.”
They spent the morning like that, slowly, quietly, their fingers brushing, soft touches on hips and shoulders, gentle kisses, occasional laughter as they navigated the space between themselves. Even after a year, it felt like they were newlyweds again, discovering each other in the way that only comes from years of love and comfort.
It wasn’t until mid-afternoon, when the sunlight fell just right across the living room, that the thought finally came. Pedri had been folding laundry, Ferran had been tidying the kitchen, and neither had spoken about the baby in months. Not because the desire had gone - it hadn’t - but because the weight of their earlier struggles had faded, replaced by the steady happiness of a life lived side by side.
Ferran set the last plate on the counter and leaned against it, watching Pedri. “Pedri,” he said softly.
Pedri looked up, curious. “Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking,” Ferran began, voice careful, measured, the way he always did when the subject was delicate. “About… us. About everything.”
Pedri’s heart thumped faintly, a flutter of nerves he hadn’t felt in months. “Everything?”
Ferran nodded, stepping closer. He reached for Pedri’s hand, weaving their fingers together. “About our life. About… maybe trying again.”
Pedri’s chest tightened, a mix of excitement and cautious hope washing over him. “Trying again?”
“Yes,” Ferran said, voice gentle. “I know it’s been… a long road. And we’ve focused on our careers, on the house, on… us. But I think… maybe we’re ready now. We’ve been stable for so long. We’ve built this life together. And I want… I want to take that next step with you, if you feel the same.”
Pedri felt warmth bloom through his chest, a slow, steady joy he hadn’t realized he’d missed so desperately. He leaned into Ferran’s touch, pressing a kiss to the top of his hand. “I’ve thought about it,” he admitted softly. “For months. I… I think we could try again. I’m ready, if you are.”
Ferran’s eyes softened, and he cupped Pedri’s face in his hands. “I am,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment. And now… now feels right.”
Pedri’s smile grew, bright and unguarded. “It does.”
Ferran pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, slow and deliberate, savoring the feel of them, the warmth, the certainty of it. “Then let’s do it,” he whispered against Pedri’s mouth. “Together. Always.”
They stayed like that for a long moment, forehead to forehead, hands intertwined, letting the world outside fade. The house was quiet, the afternoon sun bathing them in gold. And in that quiet, Ferran realized something he hadn’t allowed himself to think in a long time: that maybe, finally, they could have everything they’d dreamed of.
A soft laugh escaped Pedri, breaking the stillness. “I can’t believe we’re finally here,” he said, voice shaking slightly with happiness. “After everything… we’re really doing this.”
Ferran chuckled, pressing a small kiss to Pedri’s temple. “We are. And this time… we’re doing it right. No pressure. Just… us. And whatever comes.”
Pedri leaned into him, resting his head on Ferran’s shoulder. “I like that,” he murmured. “I like just… being with you.”
Ferran hugged him tightly, the weight of the past year, the past struggles, the past fears, melting into the warmth of their closeness. “Me too,” he said. “I love you, Pedri. More than anything.”
Pedri’s hand brushed along Ferran’s chest, tracing the familiar contours he had memorized over years of intimacy. “I love you too,” he whispered. “Always.”
And for the first time in what felt like forever, there was no hesitation, no fear, no guilt. Just two men in love, holding each other close, ready to take the next step in their life together.
💛
The morning sun spilled over the balcony, golden and warm, catching the dust motes dancing lazily in the air. Ferran stood at the railing, coffee in hand, watching the city wake. The quiet of the weekend felt different now, heavier with potential. He could feel it in the tension in his chest, a mix of excitement and nerves.
Pedri emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later, hair mussed from sleep, a soft smile on his lips. Ferran’s heart lurched. He’d been waiting for this for months - waiting for the moment when they could try again - but seeing Pedri like this, calm, warm, and alive, made his chest tighten.
“Morning,” Pedri murmured, stepping closer, barefoot across the balcony floor.
Ferran’s lips curved. “Morning, love.” He set his cup down and reached for him, letting their fingers intertwine. Pedri’s hand fit perfectly in his, a familiar, grounding weight.
They didn’t speak much at first. Just held each other, letting the silence stretch, letting their bodies do the talking. Pedri leaned into Ferran’s chest, and Ferran rested his chin on the top of his head, inhaling the faint scent of shampoo and sun-warmed skin.
A few quiet moments later, Ferran’s hand brushed along Pedri’s back, trailing down to his hips, thumb brushing in slow circles. Pedri shivered, leaning into the touch.
(imagine some great unprotected smut here)
“Coffee?” Ferran asked, his voice teasing, though his eyes lingered on Pedri in a way that made him flush.
“Always,” Pedri replied, smiling, a soft laugh escaping him. “But I think I’d rather just… stay here.” He pressed a quick kiss to Ferran’s chest, leaving him wanting more.
Ferran grinned, tugging him closer with a soft laugh. “We could… stay.” His words hung, unspoken possibilities vibrating between them.
Later, inside the kitchen, they moved together with casual familiarity, Ferran cooking while Pedri leaned against the counter, occasionally swiping a taste of sauce or brushing fingers along Ferran’s forearms. Every small contact was electric, deliberate, and playful.
“You know,” Pedri said, fingers tracing the curve of Ferran’s arm, “we could eat later. Or not at all.”
Ferran laughed, a low, intimate sound. “Not at all?” His voice dropped, teasing, almost a growl. “I like the way you think.”
Pedri leaned in close, lips grazing Ferran’s jaw. “Do you?”
(imagine a great makeout here)
💛
After breakfast - or what counted as breakfast - they found themselves on the balcony again, the air warm and sticky with the first hints of summer. Pedri rested his head on Ferran’s shoulder, sun warming their skin, fingers intertwined lazily. Ferran brushed his lips along Pedri’s temple, then along the curve of his neck. Pedri’s sigh was quiet but content.
“You know,” Ferran murmured, “I’ve missed this. Being like… just us, without the rest of the world pressing down.”
Pedri shifted, hands moving over Ferran’s back, thumbs brushing over his muscles. “I’ve missed it too. Feels like… we’re finally allowed to just… be.”
Ferran’s lips hovered near Pedri’s ear. “We are. And now… we get to start again. Fully.”
Pedri’s breath hitched slightly. “Fully?” he asked, voice teasing but with a hint of need.
“Yes,” Ferran whispered, fingers tracing lines down his spine, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Everything.”
💛
The afternoon stretched slowly. They spent it tidying the garden, laughing when Pedri’s fingers brushed Ferran’s bare shoulders as they moved furniture. Even the mundane was intimate now - every touch lingering, every glance a reminder of closeness, trust, and desire.
By evening, they were on the sofa, curled together beneath a shared blanket, fingers tangled, foreheads pressed together. Ferran’s lips brushed along Pedri’s jaw, his hand resting lightly on his hip. Pedri leaned into him, sighing, eyes closing.
“Feels like… we’re starting over,” Pedri murmured, voice soft. “But… in a good way.”
Ferran pressed a small kiss to the top of his head. “The best way,” he said. “I want us to remember this. Every touch, every laugh, every kiss. Before we… start trying again. I want it all to feel right.”
💛
Later, they moved to the bedroom, a quiet tension humming between them. They didn’t speak of it, didn’t need to. The simple act of undressing each other, brushing hands across familiar curves, was charged with anticipation and affection. Each touch was slow, deliberate, a reaffirmation of intimacy after the long wait.
Ferran pressed his forehead to Pedri’s, hand sliding along his ribs, thumb brushing in lazy circles. Pedri’s lips found his shoulder, soft sigh escaping. Their laughter was quiet, intimate, the sound mingling with the soft rustle of sheets.
(imagine some great unprocted smut here)
Finally, lying together afterward, tangled beneath the covers, Ferran traced small patterns along Pedri’s back. The sun had long since set, leaving only the faint glow of the city lights outside the window. Pedri rested his head against Ferran’s chest, letting himself relax fully, completely, the steady beat of Ferran’s heart a lullaby.
“I feel like… nothing else matters right now,” Pedri murmured, voice soft. “Just us. Just this.”
Ferran pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “That’s all that matters,” he said. “Always has been, always will be.”
Pedri let out a quiet laugh, sleepy but content. “Promise we’ll remember this? Even when… later?”
Ferran’s fingers brushed over his hair. “I promise. Every day. Every moment. This is our starting line. And we’re running it together.”
They lay like that long after the night had deepened, bodies intertwined, hands brushing, hearts steady and synchronized. Every touch, every sigh, every whisper reinforced what they already knew: that no matter the path ahead, no matter the challenges or tests, they were a team, partners, lovers.
It had been exactly seven days since Ferran and Pedri had officially “started trying again,” and Ferran had been counting each day like it was a goal scored in the final minutes of a championship match. Pedri, meanwhile, had been rolling his eyes at him every morning, every evening, and every time he so much as mentioned the word “ovulation.”
“Ferran, stop,” Pedri said as he perched on the edge of the bed, hands crossed over his chest, glaring in mock indignation. “You don’t need to tell me how fertile I am every single day.”
Ferran grinned, sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding his phone like it contained the secrets of the universe. “I’m just documenting. For science. And… strategy.”
“Strategy,” Pedri repeated, clearly unimpressed. “You mean, basically an entire day of fucking, and then reporting on it like you’re keeping a training log.”
Ferran laughed, throwing his head back dramatically. “Hey, it’s a rigorous schedule. I’m practically an Olympian right now.”
Pedri shook his head, a laugh escaping him despite himself. “You are ridiculous.”
💛
Ferran leaned against the bathroom counter, arms crossed loosely, while Pedri perched on the edge of the bathtub, legs dangling, hands wringing the edge of the towel around him. Between them sat the test, innocuous and white, plastic and still, like a tiny, silent judge.
Neither spoke for a long moment. The hum of the bathroom fan and the faint dripping of the tap were the only sounds. Pedri’s eyes kept flicking to the test, then back to Ferran. He swallowed and shifted nervously, brushing a hand along Ferran’s arm.
“You think it’s ready yet?” he asked, voice quieter than he intended.
Ferran shook his head, though a small, amused grin tugged at his lips. “Nope. It’s being dramatic. Like always. We just have to wait.”
Pedri groaned, flopping back onto the edge of the tub and covering his face with both hands. “I hate this. I hate waiting. Why do these things take forever?”
“Because they enjoy it,” Ferran said, leaning closer, resting his elbows on the counter, chin in his hands. “They enjoy watching us squirm.”
Pedri peeked between his fingers. “Do they? Really?”
Ferran rolled his eyes, though his smile softened when he brushed a stray lock of hair from Pedri’s face. “Maybe not, but that’s how it feels, doesn’t it? All this… tension. All this anxiety. Like the world is holding its breath with us.”
Pedri sighed and leaned against Ferran, letting his head rest on Ferran’s shoulder. The small contact was grounding, calming, even if his stomach still felt twisted with nerves. Ferran’s hand found Pedri’s, fingers threading together.
“I think… I think I’ve never been more nervous about anything in my life,” Pedri admitted, voice muffled.
Ferran tightened his grip slightly. “Except maybe penalty shootouts,” he teased softly.
Pedri rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him. “Yes, exactly. Except somehow worse. Because this… this isn’t just a game. And we can’t train for it. We can’t… practice, you know?”
“I know,” Ferran said quietly. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of Pedri’s head. “But we’re here. Together. That counts for something.”
Pedri tilted his head up to glance at him, eyes wide. “It counts for everything,” he whispered.
The timer ticked audibly now, each second louder than the last. Ferran exhaled slowly, trying not to show how fast his own heart was beating. Pedri leaned closer, and Ferran’s hand brushed against the nape of his neck, thumb stroking small circles.
“Almost there,” Ferran murmured. “We just have to wait a little longer. That’s it. A little longer.”
Pedri nodded, squeezing his hand, leaning in until his forehead rested against Ferran’s chest. The seconds dragged, the air heavy with anticipation, and neither man said anything else. They didn’t need to. They were together, holding each other in the quiet, staring at the small, plastic device that could change everything - or nothing - while the timer continued its slow, inexorable march.
💛
The timer beeped sharply, slicing through the quiet tension of the bathroom. Ferran’s eyes went wide, and Pedri’s head snapped up, heart hammering.
“Okay,” Ferran whispered, voice tight with barely contained excitement. “Moment of truth.”
They leaned closer together, almost instinctively, and Ferran reached for the test just as Pedri did. Their hands brushed, then touched fully, and both froze for a beat before turning it over at the exact same time.
They grinned at each other, holding the test between them like a trophy. Ferran’s thumb hovered over the little window, and Pedri’s breath caught.
Then they looked.
One line.
Not pregnant.
It registered slowly, as if the air had thickened around them. Ferran’s grin faltered. Pedri blinked. Then, suddenly, the dam broke. Pedri’s hands flew to his face, pressing against it as tears slipped down his cheeks.
Ferran didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He stepped forward, careful and silent, and pulled Pedri into his arms. He held him there tightly, chest to chest, forehead pressed to the top of Pedri’s head. Pedri’s body trembled against him, soft sobs shaking through him.
“It’s okay,” Ferran murmured, voice low and steady, even though his own throat felt tight. “It’s okay. We’ll… we’ll figure it out. Together.”
Pedri buried his face into Ferran’s chest, clinging to him like he could anchor himself there. “I… I wanted it so badly,” he whispered, his voice muffled. “I thought… maybe this time…”
Ferran’s hands moved slowly up and down Pedri’s back, fingers brushing over his spine, pressing comfort into him. “I know,” he said softly. “I know. Me too. I wanted it too. And it’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to cry.”
They stayed like that for long moments, neither saying much, letting the grief, the disappointment, and the quiet ache settle between them. Ferran’s embrace was steady, unyielding, a protective wall around Pedri, who shuddered against him, trying to process the blow.
The bathroom fan hummed overhead, the faint drip of the tap counting out time. The negative result sat on the counter, insignificant in size but monumental in weight, yet in that moment, all that mattered was the small bubble of warmth and security Ferran created for Pedri.
Pedri’s tears slowed, but he still clung, and Ferran held him tighter, rocking him gently. Neither of them spoke; words weren’t enough. They didn’t need to be. Just this - this closeness, this quiet intimacy, the shared pulse of their hearts - was enough for now.
Eventually, Pedri lifted his head slightly, eyes red and shining. Ferran brushed a wet strand of hair from his face, thumbs lingering on his cheeks.
“We’ll keep trying,” Ferran said quietly. “When the time is right. I promise.”
Pedri nodded, sniffing, letting out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Together,” he whispered.
Ferran pressed a final, soft kiss to his temple. “Always.”
💛
The rest of the day passed quietly, almost painfully. Ferran and Pedri moved around the house like ghosts, the negative test result lingering in the air between them. Breakfast had been eaten mechanically, lunch left mostly untouched, and even the afternoon sunlight that spilled through the windows felt muted somehow.
They didn’t speak much. Pedri curled up on the sofa under a blanket, knees tucked to his chest, staring out the window at the garden Ferran had planted. Ferran sat nearby, scrolling absently on his phone, though his gaze kept flicking toward Pedri, heart twisting at the way his husband looked so small, so vulnerable.
Occasionally, Ferran reached over and brushed a hand across Pedri’s shoulder, a light, tentative touch. Pedri would lean into him slightly, letting the contact happen, but neither said anything. Words felt inadequate for the mix of disappointment, frustration, and longing that filled the quiet rooms.
They watched a muted television for a while, the volume low, the shows barely registering. Pedri rested his head on Ferran’s thigh at one point, and Ferran absently ran his fingers through Pedri’s hair, a comforting gesture, though neither could summon the energy to smile.
Even when they ate dinner, it was a quiet affair. Ferran cut the food and passed Pedri bites, hands brushing occasionally, but the usual playfulness between them was absent. Laughter didn’t come easily, and even small jokes hung awkwardly in the air.
By the late afternoon, they had both retreated to separate corners of the house - Pedri to the sofa, Ferran to a chair with a book he wasn’t really reading. The silence was thick but not hostile; it was the kind of quiet that comes when grief and love coexist in the same space, pressing close to the skin.
When the evening approached, they found themselves together again in the living room, curled up under a shared blanket. Pedri rested his head on Ferran’s chest, Ferran’s arms draped around him, both watching the city lights flicker outside. Neither said anything for a long time. Sometimes, that was all they needed: presence. The steady rhythm of Ferran’s heartbeat under Pedri’s ear, the warmth of skin pressed to skin, the unspoken promise that they were still in this together.
Later, Pedri moved to the ensuite, toothbrush in hand, Ferran waiting in bed, legs tangled beneath the covers. Pedri’s movements were slow, reflective, his mind replaying the quiet sadness of the day.
He rinsed and spat, then paused, glancing toward the counter where the test had been left since the afternoon. Something made him look again, and his breath caught. Faint. So faint it was almost invisible, but there it was - the second line. A second line.
“Ferran!” he called, voice breaking in disbelief and excitement.
Ferran jumped up immediately, nearly slipping over the edge of the bed as he rushed toward the ensuite, thinking something was wrong. Pedri held up the test, eyes wide, trembling. “Look! Look!”
Ferran squinted, then gasped, grinning as he saw the faintest hint of pink beside the control line. “No way!” he breathed. “That… that’s-”
“It’s positive!” Pedri cut in, laughter bubbling up even as tears streamed down his cheeks. “Ferran! I think… we did it!”
Ferran lunged forward, pressing a hand to Pedri’s cheek, then scooping him up in a tight embrace. Pedri squealed, wrapping his arms around Ferran’s neck as Ferran spun him around in the middle of the bathroom, laughing and crying all at once.
“This is… this is real?” Pedri gasped, pressing his forehead to Ferran’s shoulder, giggling through happy tears.
“It is,” Ferran whispered, voice cracking with emotion. “It really is. Nuestro bebé! We did it, Pedri. Lo hicimos!”
Pedri’s arms tightened around Ferran, holding him like he never wanted to let go. Ferran spun him once more, laughter echoing off the tiles, tears streaking both their faces. Every past disappointment, every long wait, every worry - they all seemed to melt away in this moment of pure, uncontainable joy.
They sank to the floor in a heap, still laughing, still crying, holding each other tightly. Pedri rested his head on Ferran’s chest, listening to the rapid beat of his heart. Ferran pressed kisses to the top of Pedri’s head, cheeks, shoulders, murmuring endless words of love.
“This… this is perfect,” Pedri whispered, sniffling, voice trembling with happiness. “I can’t believe it.”
Ferran’s grin softened, eyes shining. “I can. Because it’s us. Always us. And this… this is just the beginning.”
They stayed there, in the warm glow of the bathroom lights, hearts pounding in tandem, holding each other and laughing and crying, the first real, undeniable spark of hope blooming between them.
💛
The next morning began with the sun slanting through the blinds in perfect golden stripes, the bedroom bathed in warmth. Ferran stirred first, already awake, heart thudding with anticipation. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at Pedri as he slept, thinking about the faint second line from the night before. That tiny, miraculous hint of pink had changed everything.
Pedri yawned and stretched, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and Ferran practically bounced onto him, a grin stretching from ear to ear.
“Pedri!” he said, voice bursting with excitement. “We need to… we need to make sure. You know… for confirmation.”
Pedri blinked, still half-asleep, before realizing the gleam in Ferran’s eyes. “Confirmation?” he echoed, groaning but laughing at the same time. “Ferran, you mean… more tests? Do we really need-”
“Yes!” Ferran interrupted, already halfway out of bed, shaking the duvet with dramatic urgency. “We need to be thorough. Any test we can find. This is our day, Pedri. Our victory lap!”
By mid-morning, their bedroom and bathroom looked like a small pharmacy had exploded. Digital tests with tiny screens, basic strip tests, one with a bright pink line so thick it could almost be read from across the room - they bought them all. Pedri stood leaning against the counter, trying not to laugh as Ferran lined them up like trophies, each one promising confirmation of what their hearts already knew.
“Okay, okay,” Pedri said, holding a mug of coffee like he was trying to anchor himself in sanity. “Let’s do this… in an orderly fashion. Please.”
Ferran raised an eyebrow, grinning wildly. “Orderly? Pedri, this is a historic day! We don’t do ‘orderly’!”
And with that, the testing began. Each new test came back positive. Digital screens flashed Pregnant in bold letters. Strips turned vivid pink. Even the novelty test shaped like little baby footprints, designed for reveals and Instagram posts, confirmed the same. Pedri could hardly stop laughing through the tears threatening to spill, and Ferran was practically dancing from counter to counter, spinning Pedri around whenever he tried to hug him.
“They all agree!” Ferran shouted at one point, holding up three tests at once, eyes shining. “Every single one! We did it! We really did it!”
“I can’t believe it,” Pedri said, still giggling, voice breaking. “After… after everything, after all the waiting… it’s real. We’re really going to have a baby.”
Ferran dropped onto the floor beside him, scooping him into his lap and spinning him once before holding him close. “I’ve dreamed of this day since forever,” he said, laughing and crying at the same time. “You’ve dreamed of this day since forever. And now… we’re here. Finally!”
Pedri pressed his face into Ferran’s chest, trembling, happy tears streaking down his cheeks. “I never thought I’d feel this… everything at once. I’m so happy, Ferran. So… so happy.”
Ferran pressed a kiss to the top of Pedri’s head, then whispered against his hair, “Me too, Pedri. Me too. I’ve never been this happy in my life.”
They sat there amidst the chaos of tests, laughing, crying, holding hands, occasionally hugging the tests for dramatic effect, completely unbothered by the mess around them. Every digital beep, every pink line, every confirmation was another reminder that the dream they had both carried for so long - years and years of hope, anxiety, longing - was finally real.
Ferran pulled Pedri close, forehead to forehead. “We’re having a baby,” he whispered. “Can you believe it?”
“I can,” Pedri said, voice shaky with laughter and tears. “Because it’s us. And now… it’s finally happening. I can’t stop smiling.”
Ferran pressed another quick kiss to Pedri’s lips, and they both burst into another round of laughter, tears streaming, hearts pounding, utterly consumed by the pure, ecstatic joy of the moment. It was a culmination of years of love, hope, and patience, finally blooming into a reality they could hold, see, and feel.
And in that little bathroom, amidst a mountain of tests and a torrent of laughter and happy tears, they realized something else: this was only the beginning.